


Mine

by Severina



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Community: love_bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:19:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything gets fucked up as soon as they hit the camp.  There's less of the outlaws than they figured – only seven of 'em, ranged round the fire and gorging on the food that it took Daryl and Glenn weeks of supply runs to find, food that properly rationed would have lasted their little camp a month – but the odds tip radically out of their favour when they realize the outlaws have a machine gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's love_bingo community, for the prompt "the boy is mine"
> 
> * * *

He's been tracking the outlaws for three days, Rick and Glenn silent at his heels. Hardly talking, not even when they bed down for the night, exchanging only a few words when they switch off the watch.

Outlaws, that's what Rick calls them, like they're back in the wild west. Daryl don't feel like a member of no posse, though he might look like someone out of a spaghetti western in his dirty jeans and old horse blanket. He just knows that if the raid on their camp goes unanswered, it sends the message that they're easy pickings. They'll never be able to sleep easy, always gotta be looking over their shoulder for the return of these fuckers, or others like them. Never be able to let Judith wander more'n a couple of feet from whoever's looking after her without worrying that somebody's gonna swoop down and steal her off, or put a bullet through her. They gotta hit these bastards and hit 'em hard, take back what they stole. It's the only way.

Daryl stops at the verge of a clearing, eases down to his knees and hears the others follow suit. He waits until Rick edges up to his side before lifting his hand, pointing toward the old hunting shack nestled among a copse of trees.

Rick narrows his eyes. "You sure?" he asks quietly. "No smoke."

"Land swoops down on the other side," Daryl answers, his lips barely moving. "Me and Merle used to hunt nearabouts. Could have a dozen fires burnin' low and we'd never see 'em from here."

Rick takes a moment to digest the information, then nods and gestures for Glenn to join them. "All right," he says. "How do you wanna do this?"

* * *

Everything gets fucked up as soon as they hit the camp. There's less of the outlaws than they figured – only seven of 'em, ranged round the fire and gorging on the food that it took Daryl and Glenn weeks of supply runs to find, food that properly rationed would have lasted their little camp a month – but the odds tip radically out of their favour when they realize the outlaws have a machine gun.

Daryl dives for the ground, bullets sending up plumes of dust at his feet. He hits the ground hard, feels part of the shaft of his bow crack under his weight, and bites back a curse as he shoves it off his shoulders and leaves it in the dirt. The boulder isn't much to hide behind and there's so much dust flying through the air that he can barely see, but he squints down the barrel of his gun, lips twitching in satisfaction when one of the outlaws flies backward and out of sight. The crack of a gun gives him Rick's locale and he starts edging to the right, putting some distance between them. There's movement to his left and he spins, taking out another of the outlaws, and when the man falls he sees the first of the walkers moving through the trees, stumbling on exposed roots and staggering into tree trunks but coming, always coming, drawn to the noise of the guns. 

He's rising to his feet behind the cover of a rusty sedan when the sound of the machine gun stutters, and even over the moans of the dying and the boom of the Colt Daryl can hear the rattle as it hits the ground. He edges along the side panel, slow and easy, has another of the outlaws in his sights when the sound of a scuffle draws his attention. 

The man who steps into the clearing has a gut, a derringer and Glenn, grasped in a one-armed grip.

"Throw down your weapons," the man calls out, "or I turn this one's head into hamburger."

* * *

"Just calm down, everyone," Rick says. "There's no need for anyone else to get hurt."

Daryl glances from Rick to his gun, lying at his feet where he dropped it when he eased out from behind the car with his hands up, following Rick's lead. It seemed like a stupid move at the time, and it still feels like one now. 

He tries not to look at the kid; can't help looking at the kid. Glenn's lips are pressed together, the barrel of the gun leaving a clear indentation where it digs into the side of his head. He's swallowing convulsively, his arm twisted at what has to be a painful angle behind his back, his body pressed into the gut of the fat fuck holding him, effectively shielding the bastard from a shot. 

The fucker's eyes dart between Rick, standing there with his palms up, and the two goons still left alive. 

"Nobody needs to get hurt?" he spits. "You tell that to Jesse. Your boy here blew the back of his head clean off."

"You raided our camp," Rick says slowly. "You stole our food."

"Man needs to eat."

"Don't look like that's been a problem for you much," Daryl says.

"Smart mouth on that one," the man says, gaze flicking to him before returning his attention to Rick. Bastard's got Rick pegged as the dangerous one in the bunch, and Daryl's fine with that. "Better tell him to watch it 'fore I knock his teeth right out of it. Or maybe I take his insolence out on the boy here."

He punctuates the words with a sharp tug on Glenn's arm. The kid gasps but doesn't cry out, and that just seems to make the motherfucker more angry. He yanks on Glenn's arm again, and this time Glenn does yelp, a high-pitched whimper that twists in Daryl's gut.

Daryl's taken a step forward before he even realizes he's doing it. "You hurt him and I kill you," he grits out.

The man's eyes narrow, darting between the two of them, and Daryl can see the exact moment that comprehension dawns. 

"Oh, ho. We got a little romance here, is that it? You two a couple of butt pirates?"

Daryl bristles, opens his mouth to tell the son of a bitch exactly what he's going to do to him, all the ways he knows to make him hurt before he finally lets him die. Then he catches the look in Glenn's eye and bites his tongue. Mouthing off ain't gonna do nothing but get Glenn hurt more than he is now. 

He flicks his gaze briefly to Rick instead; to the two goons fanned out behind their leader. 

"None of that matters," Rick says. "We just want what's ours. What you stole."

"Seems to me that possession is nine tenths of the law. Ain't that right, Marcus?" He looks over his shoulder at one of the goons, some overgrown troglodyte with buck teeth, and Daryl tenses, holds his breath until the fucker's attention swings back to Rick.

"'S'what I heard, Jacob," Marcus answers.

Rick grits his teeth. "Fine," he says. "You can keep the food, keep all of it! Just release the boy and we'll leave you alone, you'll never see us again."

"Oh well gee, thanks, mister." 

"Look—" Rick starts.

"No, you look," Jacob snarls. He turns in Rick's direction, the gun wavering just a little. "You ain't the one callin' the shots here. You ain't the one with the gun. You ain't the one gets to decide what—"

Daryl's shot takes him high in the shoulder, spins him halfway around. When Glenn follows up with an elbow to his ample gut, Jacob crumples into the dirt. Daryl sees Rick dive for his weapon out of the corner of his eye, but it feels like he has all the time in the world to watch as Marcus and the other goon lift their guns, aim in his direction. 

Then the walkers are upon them.

Marcus goes down first, his scream shrill and terrified when the walker wraps a rotted hand around his neck and sinks its teeth into his shoulder. The second goon at least gets a shot away before the walkers take him down.

Daryl keeps a wary eye on the feeding geeks as he walks the rest of the way into the clearing. "You okay?" he asks.

"I'll be fine," Glenn gasps out. He flicks on the safety of Jacob's gun before tucking it into the belt of his jeans, but Daryl doesn't miss the grimace when he does so. Hopefully it's nothing more than a torn muscle, something a little rest will cure. "Where'd you get the gun?"

"Always carry a spare," Daryl says. "You know that."

"Mister. You gotta help me."

Daryl looks down at the fat fuck lying at his feet, one pudgy hand pressed to his shoulder. The blood surging through his fingers and soaking into the dirt looks technicolour red in the bright afternoon sunlight. Daryl leans over and spits deliberately in the dirt, watches as the blood quickly covers the moisture. Too fast, too much for a simple shoulder wound. He wonders if he might have hit an artery.

"Please," the man begs. His panic-stricken eyes flick from Daryl to Glenn, to Rick striding across the tramped down grass. "Please, mister. You can't just leave me here."

"Sure I can. I'm gone," Daryl says as he lopes an arm around Glenn's waist, mindful of his injury. "Just takin' what's mine." 

Whatever Jacob sees in his face makes his eyes go wide, makes him swallow dryly. He jumps at a particularly loud snarl from one of the geeks, struggles to see over his shoulder, and Daryl follows his gaze to see that at least two of the walkers have already finished off the goons, have noticed that there is fresh meat in the area. He watches as Jacob turns his attention to Rick, raises one blood-stained hand. "Please," he says. "The walkers…"

"I suggest," Rick says softly, "that you run."


End file.
